


Consume

by Satine86



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: 5+1, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Missing Scenes, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 13:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satine86/pseuds/Satine86
Summary: All she could think about for the rest of the night were eyes the color of blue gaslight, and how they burned like it too.Or 5 times Anne doused the flames and 1 time she let herself burn.





	Consume

**Author's Note:**

> This idea sprang to life before I could even question it and I'm only kind of sorry for all the fire metaphor.

**1.**

It had been several weeks, and Anne was still trying to figure out one Phillip Carlyle. Of course rumors about him swirled around the circus, trickling in from the world outside about his high society life. She paid little mind to the more outrageous stories, instead focusing on the things that rang more true. Like talk of his plays and his family and his possible disgrace after joining their troupe. Because that was the first thing she knew for sure about Phillip Carlyle: he was a rich boy. Pure and simple. Except it wasn’t exactly pure and it certainly wasn’t simple.

Anne thought she could see why P.T. had shown an interest in him, Phillip knew his way around the stage, knew what drew people in and how to really make it shine. His name and connections were clearly a bonus as well. Though what Anne couldn’t understand, was why Phillip had shown any interest in them. 

But he had, and that was perhaps the strangest thing about him, how he had quickly insinuated himself into circus life. He was obviously learning a lot from P.T., a near constant shadow to the older man. Yet, he also managed to make friends with the performers. 

As time wore on Anne had to concede that Phillip might actually care for them. She knew he took pains to make sure everyone had what they needed, that things ran smoothly and safely. She watched all of this from afar, her interest piqued despite herself, and tried to categorize everything she saw. 

Maybe that was his act, and he was only looking out for his own interests? He got a percentage of the earnings, or so Lettie had said once. But that wasn’t all of it. Not when he spent time double checking Tom’s saddle, or the rigging for the trapeze before a show. Not when he would share a drink with W.D. and the others -- though she did notice the flask at his hip was used less and less on its own. 

Protecting his interests certainly didn’t seem the case whenever he looked at her. Which was the second thing Anne knew about Phillip Carlyle without a doubt: he had the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and they always seemed to find her. And that was not something she could categorize, or dissect. It was not something she could understand. If she ended up avoiding him a bit because of it? Well, so be it.

Anne was surprised when he arrived one day in good spirits despite some of their more lackluster press. Anne watched with a fond smile as he spun Helen around, more jovial than she could remember seeing him since joining up with P.T. 

Sometimes, she thought, he looked like he really did belong there. 

The reason for his good mood soon became clear as P.T. read out loud. An invitation to meet the Queen of England. The others all started chattering at once, their own excitement quite clear. A glance from W.D. reminded Anne of their place, and any excitement she had felt slipped away in an instant.

She asked a question she was sure she already knew the answer to, “Are we all invited?” 

Phillip barely hesitated before he addressed the group at large. “I guess I’ll just have to tell the queen either all of us go, or none of us will.”

His gaze found hers, his eyes bright and clear and entirely earnest. In that moment she thought she might finally be starting to truly understand Phillip Carlyle. And what she found made a small flicker of warmth spread throughout her chest. 

That became the third thing she knew for certain about one Phillip Carlyle: he was a problem. 

 

**2.**

At night the ocean didn’t seem so vast, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. The darkness shrouded and protected, hiding the truth. There was something comforting in that, Anne thought. 

She took a deep breath of salty air, fresh and clean; a welcome reprieve from the stuffy air of the ship’s quarters with so many people crammed together. It was thrilling to be traveling across the Atlantic, thrilling to think they would see the Queen, of all people.

A chilly gust rustled her hair, whipping it across her face as she shivered. Quickly Anne pulled out the gloves she had tucked into her pocket, only to drop one as her fingers turned a little numb.

“Allow me.” 

Anne barely had time to process what was happening before she found herself looking down atop Phillip Carlyle’s head. Nary a hair out of place, and a thick scarf draped over his shoulders.

He rose up and held out her glove, clasped between two elegant fingers. Anne quickly snatched it from him, jammed her hand into it. Partly because she was cold, and partly because she didn’t what else to do. 

“Thank you, Mr. Carlyle.” 

“You’re up late.” 

“I could say the same of you.” 

He smiled at her, a wry humorless thing. “Truthfully, I’m not much of a seafarer.” 

It was hard to tell his pallor in the dim moonlight, but looking closely she thought perhaps his eyes were a little pinched at the corners. The blue not quite as vivid. 

“And you, Miss Wheeler?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper despite the fact they were alone. “What are you doing up at this hour?” 

“Just… clearing my head.” She brushed back some hair from her face, tried hard not to get too caught up the moment. As absurd as that was. “Though I suppose I should head back. Try to get some sleep.” 

“Let me walk you.” 

Anne hesitated, wanted to tell him no. He spoke again before she could.

“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.” 

She scoffed at that, but nodded all the same. It _was_ only a short distance. They were silent as they fell into step and even with space between them she could feel his warmth, safe and sure. Suddenly she no longer felt the cold wind whipping across her face. 

“Will you answer a question for me, Miss Wheeler?” 

Anne eyed him shrewdly from the corner of her eye. “I suppose it depends on what the question is.”

He laughed at that, his arms clasped behind his back. “That’s fair enough.” He came to a stop and turned to face her. She followed suit, mirroring his stance. 

“Do you avoid everyone so resolutely, or am I special?” 

It took all of her willpower to keep her face neutral as a tidal wave of possible answers crashed over her. Yes, she wanted to blurt. _Yes, you’re special._ She had never met anyone with eyes so blue and so clear and so warm she felt them across a room. 

_Yes, you’re special_ , because she had never met a man more inviting and more frightening all at once. She had never met a man who ignited a warmth in her chest, a warmth that was ready to consume her if she let it. 

Instead of saying any of that, she schooled her face into something light, something teasing. “You think very highly of yourself, don’t you?” 

He had the grace to look embarrassed, glancing down at his feet. It was a boyish gesture, and a far cry from the well polished man he presented as P.T.’s protege. It was incredibly endearing, and the warmth grew stronger, further chasing away the chill. 

“I apologize, then. I misunderstood.” 

They continued the rest of the way in a silence that was not entirely awkward, but not comfortable either. Anne breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the door leading below deck. She needed to be as far away from Phillip Carlyle as the ship allowed. 

“Sleep well, Miss Wheeler.” He inclined his head, respectful as ever. 

“You too, Mr. Carlyle.” 

He held her gaze for a moment before turning around, heading back the way they came. He took two steps before looking back at her, foolishly still standing there. 

“You can call me Phillip, you know? You call Barnum ‘P.T.’” 

“That’s different, isn’t it?” 

“How so? He’s more your boss than I am.” 

“P.T. wasn’t born rich, it makes a difference.” 

He let out a weary sigh, gaze drifting toward the railing and the ocean churning below. “Yes, I suppose it does.” 

Anne’s only thought was to escape, this was madness and the warmth was spreading up her neck. Down to her belly. She grabbed the door handle and pushed it open swiftly. Glancing over her shoulder saw him still staring at the water, a little forlornly. 

Whether it was madness or foolishness or something else, Anne wasn’t certain, but the next thing she knew her mouth opened and two words tumbled out of their own accord.

“Goodnight… Phillip.” 

She didn’t wait long enough to see his face, but she knew his eyes had snapped toward her -- could feel them on her -- and she knew, just _knew_ , they were once again that brilliant shade of blue. The bright, vivid blue that reminded her of gaslight. 

 

**3.**

It was more splendid than anything Anne could have ever dreamt of. Glittering chandeliers full of hundreds of candles, pristine marble floors covered in plush rugs that cushioned your feet with every step.

The people around her were just as grand. The women with their milky skin and shining jewels the likes of which she had never seen. The men striking in their well tailored tuxedos, with crisp white shirts and spotless gloves. 

Anne had never felt more out of place in all her life. 

Perhaps if she had a gown as grand as the other women, something soft and flowing and beautiful. Perhaps if she had real jewels instead of fake costume glitz. Perhaps… perhaps if she were anyone other than herself. 

As it was her leotard felt gaudy in comparison, her wig garish. There were whispers, of course, and she could imagine exactly what they were saying. Dozens of eyes seemed to follow her every movement, right down to the smallest twitch.

She was used to being watched, but this wasn’t like a show where people paid to be entertained. At a show their eyes would be full of wonder and awe as she soared like a bird. At a show it was freeing, this now was suffocating.

Anne tried pulling her small cape tighter around her shoulders, as if it might somehow shield her. When she realized that wouldn’t work, she shrank behind W.D. as much as possible. Like she were a small child again, seeking her brother’s protection. 

“Everyone doing all right?” Phillip addressed the group, but his eyes never left Anne’s. 

There were murmurs of assent from the others. Most seemed to be enjoying themselves, all things considered. Even W.D. didn’t seem as uncomfortable as she did. Which was made all the more clear when he turned his attention on Lettie, and Anne lost her human shield. 

With Phillip standing there in his perfect suit she felt even more exposed, even more out of place. 

“You’re all right?” He spoke lowly, and she supposed anyone would assume he was doing his job. An investor looking after his assets. Though P.T. hadn’t come by once, hadn’t mingled with them at all. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Good, I’m glad.” He nodded, falling in line next to her to watch the crowd. Even with a generous gap between them, it seemed far too close. Because of where they were, because of who they were, and because the warm affection inside her chest was spreading again. Sweeping up her neck and toward her face, until her cheeks felt hot.

Music had started playing, a string quartet in the corner, while couples twirled in rows before them. Anne decided to focus her attention on them instead, watching as the colorful skirts of so many beautiful dresses bellowed and swished with every practiced step.

“I wonder what it’s like to dance like that? They look so elegant.” She hadn’t realized she had spoken out loud until she felt Phillip lean in a little closer. Anne stood up a little straighter.

“You know what I wonder?” he whispered. 

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, couldn’t help but notice the mischievous twinkle lighting his eyes as he watched the dancers. 

“What they would look like on the trapeze?” 

Anne bit down hard on her cheek to keep from laughing, assaulted by thoughts of skirts and petticoats hanging from the rafters like clouds, frantic legs dangling. His smile was small, little more than a quirk of his lips, and smug for having made her laugh. Anne fought to breathe properly. 

“Phillip!” 

Across the room P.T. waved him over, enthusiastic as ever. Phillip motioned he would be there soon. He inclined his head, the exact same way he had the other night. Respectful and reverent and Anne’s heart constricted inside her chest.

“If you will excuse me, Miss Wheeler.” He started to move past her, still at a distance. Still with a sense of propriety. 

And just as it had been the other night, her mouth opened and words tumbled out of their own accord. This time she recognized it as foolishness, nothing else.

“Anne,” she said firmly. “It’s only fair if I call you Phillip that you call me Anne.” 

He stopped, half turned away from her. His gaze slithered over to meet hers and it was like his eyes pierced right through her, stoking the warmth inside her chest like bellows did a fire.

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t proper. They weren’t alone in the night with a stolen a moment. They weren’t safely back at the circus where long looks might go unnoticed. They were in the middle of an opulent ballroom, with what felt like a thousand sets of eyes on them. 

Seemingly heedless of their situation, Phillip held her gaze. He looked at her in a way no one ever had before; like she was the only thing that mattered in the entire room. Eventually he caught himself, averting his gaze as he cleared his throat. 

Phillip glanced up briefly, another small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I’ll talk to you later, Anne.” 

All she could think about for the rest of the night were eyes the color of blue gaslight, and how they burned like it too. 

 

**4.**

The disappointment stung. They were regulated to standing in the back, shoved out of sight like the misfits they were. P.T. hadn’t even come out to greet them, to acknowledge their presence at the very least. But of course he had something new, something shiny to focus on. What did they matter when compared to that? Obviously not much.

Still, Anne wouldn’t let that ruin the night. She wore her finest dress, had spent longer than she should have on her hair. For a brief moment she could pretend she was a fine lady, out at the opera. Even standing in a darkened corner, she could pretend. 

When Phillip appeared, she thought it was good at least someone cared enough to recognize they were there. When she realized he was to join them, Anne couldn’t keep her heart from jumping. She wondered if he fully realized what it meant to them, to her. 

As Phillip settled next to her, she thought he just might. It seemed somewhere along the way he truly had become one of them. 

The orchestra was done tuning their instruments, everyone of importance was seated, and Phillip was a warm and comforting presence beside her. The curtains rustled and P.T. appeared, charming and dashing as he always was in front of a crowd. Anne looked over the people sitting in their plush seats, already rapt. Their curiosity getting the better of them. What would P.T. Barnum have for them now? 

P.T. disappeared and shortly after the curtains rose to reveal Jenny Lind. She stood there primly, looking dazzling in white. Like an angel swathed in so much taffeta and tulle. It was no wonder P.T. had shoved them in a corner, Anne wasn’t sure she would want them to be seen either. Not when there was Jenny Lind to admire. Her voice matched the look, truly a heavenly creature gracing the world with her talents. 

However, all thoughts of Jenny Lind and P.T. Barnum and anyone else in the room vanished into nothing the moment Anne felt Phillip’s hand brush against hers. It was barely a caress as his finger grazed hers, but it was like passing your hand quickly through a candle flame: warming, exciting, and more than a little foolish.

Her breath hitched, and she wanted nothing more than to touch him again. To feel his skin against hers. Then his fingers laced with hers, the palm of his hand soft and solid against hers. Anne drew herself up a little taller, the intimacy of it making her feel bolder, safer.

Maybe it wasn’t all pretend? Maybe the darkened corner wasn’t the only place for her. Maybe, just maybe she could have a place beside Phillip. If he truly wanted her there.

Then just like that, his hand was gone. 

The disapproving looks from the couple in the box seat told Anne all she needed to know. She took one last look at Phillip, studied his profile as he stubbornly kept his eyes locked on the stage, his posture rigid. Then she turned and left without a word. 

_Foolishness._

It had been foolish to think of him as Phillip instead of Mr. Carlyle. It had been foolish to think they could be of the same world. Most importantly, it had been foolish to let her heart grow so fond of him, to let that warmth blossom into a flame. 

Only now the flame didn’t carry a familiar, welcome heat. Now it burned cold as shame trickled down her back like ice water. She was a fool, nothing more. Fools let themselves believe in fairy tales. Fools let themselves grow attached to the wrong kinds of people; people who were never meant for them. 

The night was cold when she stepped outside, snow covering the ground and ice hanging like daggers from the awnings. She barely noticed it as she scurried back to the circus, back home. Every step of the way the icy grip of humiliation grew tighter inside her chest, making it harder and harder to breathe. It wasn’t until she had stumbled into the dressing rooms that she realized she was crying. 

Sitting down heavily at her vanity, her stage makeup strewn about and her wig on a stand to the side, she viciously swiped at her face. There was no point in crying. There was no point in dwelling. 

As Anne carefully changed for the show, applied her makeup and fixed her wig, she felt the flame inside her chest change again from cold to hot; burning now with the heat of anger. Anger at her treacherous heart, anger at the world for being what it was, and anger at Phillip for not being what she had thought. What she had hoped.

By the time she took the stage with the others, the flame was a full on inferno and she did nothing to quell it. 

 

**5.**

Her anger burned bright in the following days. Everyone avoided her, afraid of getting caught up in her ire. Even W.D. had been giving her a wide berth. 

Everyone, it seemed, except the one person she actually wanted to avoid. 

Phillip Carlyle seemed to be everywhere. Logically she knew that it wasn’t entirely his fault, P.T. was becoming more and more absent, channeling everything he had into building up Jenny Lind and her new tour. That left Phillip to run the show and the day to day operations. He had no choice but to be there. Logically she knew that. 

Still, it drove her mad that every time she turned around, he was there. As handsome as ever, even with his hectic schedule. His blue eyes following her wherever she went, full of longing and regret. And that only served to make her more angry. Angry because she felt a twinge in her heart every time she caught him looking at her. Felt a tiny ember of hope try to will itself back to life before she had the chance to squash it down again. 

There was no point in dwelling or hoping or crying, she told herself daily. Anne was certainly never going to shed a tear over Phillip Carlyle ever again. No matter how much her stomach twisted itself into nervous knots every time she saw him. 

“Anne?” 

She whipped around at the sound of her name, already knowing full well who she would find. Phillip had lost his tie and suit jacket sometime during the day. The jacket was likely slung over the back of his chair in what was previously P.T’s office, but he had now claimed as his own. The jacket was probably wrinkled beyond all hope, and the fact she knew that annoyed her. 

Before her Phillip rubbed the back of his neck, fingers running underneath the collar of his shirt, the first two buttons undone. She studied him a little closer and realized how tired he looked. She knew these days he mostly slept on the dingy office sofa, but she thought his exhaustion had less to do with that and more to do with her. 

That realization also annoyed her. The fact she cared, doubly so. 

“What?” she finally asked, crossing her arms and tapping her foot impatiently. 

“Are you ever going to talk to me again?” 

She arched an eyebrow at him, “Do you want to discuss the act?” 

“No.” 

“Is this about payroll?” 

He sighed, shoulders slumping a bit. “No.”

“Then I figure we have nothing to talk about, Mr. Carlyle.” With that she turned on her heel, began marching toward the backstage where she could at least blend in with the others. The more people there were milling around, the less opportunity he had to talk to her. 

The only problem was that she could feel his eyes on her back the entire way. Burning hot like gaslight until she thought she might burst into flames in the middle of the ring. It didn’t matter if she wanted him. It didn’t matter if he might want her. He wasn’t hers, and she wasn’t his. That was a fact of life and she would just learn to accept it. 

Maybe even one day she might fully douse that ember of hope. 

 

**+1**

 

“You should get some sleep, you look exhausted.” 

Anne glanced up at W.D., smiled wanly at his concern and shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to.” 

It was the truth. Every time she closed her eyes she could feel the flames licking the side of the circus building, hot enough to singe the edges of her skirts when the wind blew them too close to the fire. 

Every time she closed her eyes she felt anew the lump in her throat as her stomach bottomed out when she saw P.T. finally emerge from the building, a limp body in his arms. Every time she closed her eyes she could hear the way her heart shattered at the sight of a badly burned, and seemingly lifeless Phillip laid out on the snow before her.

Even now, lying on the clean white linens of the hospital bed reminded her too much of that moment. The moment when she was certain he was dead. Lost to her forever. 

W.D. sighed on the other side of the bed, he’d arrived sometime close to dawn, after the fire had been put out and the troupe had all been tended to. Anne glanced up at her brother and realized he looked as tired as she felt. 

“You should go. You said everyone was staying at an inn by the docks?” Anne nodded encouragingly at W.D. “They’ll want an update, and you can get some rest.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and Anne was sure he was going to argue with her. She was ready for that though. There was nothing he could do, only lose sleep while they waited. Better that at least one of them get some rest. Better that it was W.D. because once he left then maybe she could let herself cry. Not that long ago she had said she would never again shed a tear over Phillip Carlyle, now it seemed that was all she was capable of doing.

Finally W.D nodded, and rose from his chair. He stepped behind Anne’s chair, gave Phillip one last look before bending and pressing a kiss to his sister’s head. 

“He went back for you. You know that, right?” 

Anne tilted her head back to look at W.D.’s face. “I do.”

“No hesitation. Not a second thought.” W.D. took in a shaky breath. “I barely had time to register you weren’t with us, and he was already bolting in there.” 

A lump formed in Anne’s throat and no matter how much she fought it, her face crumpled at his words. 

“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad,” he added hastily, laying a soothing hand on her shoulder. “I’m saying this because he loves you, Anne. And you love him. And honestly, you could do a lot worse.” 

She laughed despite herself, despite the tears welling in her eyes. W.D. gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and then he was gone. Now alone with nothing but her fears, Anne bent her head and wept. 

 

***

 

She had lost track of time. W.D stopped by after he’d slept, so had Lettie. They offered to relieve her of her post if she wanted to eat, or sleep. But Anne had waved them off, told them to go help the others, help P.T. 

Soon after they left, Phillip grew restless in his sleep. Tossing and turning and coughing. Anne tried to calm him as best she could, speaking in hushed tones and placing cool compresses on his head. He mumbled and muttered, and she thought she heard her name.

Anne laid a hand on his cheek, hoped he knew it was her. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

Eventually he settled again and fell back asleep, the deep, quiet sleep that reminded her too much of death. She took his hand in hers, felt his warmth and reminded herself that he was still alive. 

She felt useless sitting there, but the doctor had said all they could do was wait and see. And so she did. Even if time seemed to inch by as slowly as a snail stuck in molasses, still she waited. The only break in the tedium was the nurse coming to change his dressings.

Sometime in the early evening, or so she thought, Phillip’s hand twitched. Not like it had countless times before, an unconscious movement while he slept. This was deliberate, his fingers flexing against hers. 

Anne watched with bated breath as blue eyes slowly blinked open. Phillip looked confused for a moment before something changed in his gaze, his eyes softening at the sight of her. 

“You’re here.” His voice was rough with sleep and smoke and soot, but it might as well have been music to her ears. Phillip was alive and awake and he was going to be all right. 

The mixture of relief and joy she felt was overwhelming. So Anne did the only thing she could think to do, she surged forward and grabbed Phillip’s face, kissing him full on the mouth. His lips were warm and gentle as he returned the kiss, and Anne felt her joy double ten fold. She pulled back after a moment, their lips still barely touching. 

The feeling inside her chest had been a flicker and a flame, hot and then cold. Now it seemed to flare out, warming every inch of her body from the tips of her fingers right down to her toes. Once she had been afraid to let it consume her, now she welcomed it. 

“I love you,” she whispered, finally giving a name to the feeling. Finally accepting it for what it was. Then his fingers were in her hair and his lips were on hers again and she found nothing else mattered.


End file.
